The Monkey King's Used Primate Emporium and Book Reviews

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Charles Bukowski, �You Get So Alone At Times That It Just Makes Sense�

Started March 19 � Finished March 19, 2002; 315 pages. Posted 27 March 2003

Occasionally, people like to look at things that I�ve wrote, and use that as some sort of litmus test. �Well,� they say, �at least I�m not as miserable as THAT guy.� You think I�m joking. I am not. The thing is, I usually think of myself as the wacky fun guy. Yeah, I do have my moments, and most of that stems from being around people who I want to respect, but just can�t.

I know specific people who have seen me in these moods. I�m sure some other people have as well, but I can�t remember who they were. There�s a reason for that. When I get in these moods, I�m usually loaded out of my mind. But in case you haven�t seen me loaded, I don�t act like the normal frat boy. For the most part, I seem to get quieter and more resolved to watch others � and that time that I spent the entire trip punching Joe in the chest doesn�t count.

And sometimes while I watch other people, I get very depressed. For the most part, it�s simply because I�ve known most of these people for over ten years, and I think I�ve seen their prime come and go. Most of my friends have lost their passion, lost their anger, lost their drive. Of course, this comes from a guy who just skipped out on a Fleshies show because I had a hangover, but this is not about me, goddamn it.

I bring this up because I just finished a goddamn Bukowski book, dammit. And frankly, going from his book to a party at my house was annoying.

Okay, so Bukowski was a drunk. But you know what? He could actually write as well, so he automatically has something up on the rest of you shit weasels. Drinking does not make any of you cool — in fact, it makes most of you look even worse than you were before — only now you have a so-called excuse for your behavior. �Oh, I was only obnoxious because I was drunk.� No, you were obnoxious before, the alcohol just gave you the courage to be loud about it.

This is how I felt at the party at my house last week. I seriously hated everybody, and I probably wasn�t justified in that position. But everybody I talked to was a fucking dumbass. And by that I don�t mean they had a different opinion than me (though that would automatically make them a dumbass), it was more that their opinion was one you would expect from either Jerry Springer, or from someone who actually thought Fox News was a credible source. A friend of mine recently mentioned to me being upset how her friend�s boyfriend was continually ranting how he wanted Iraq �bombed into fucking glass.�

Imagine seeing a whole household of people with this opinion.

By this time, I wasn�t thinking about upbringing, or media exposure, I just decided that they were a bunch of fuckheads, and since it was my house, I figured I�d push the buttons for a while.

I put on my upside-down flag shirt and hung out. I drank beer and I tried to get involved in the jingoistic debates. Somehow I failed in all of these tasks. And for some reason, I decided to flee. Flee to the Caravan, because, for some reason, I thought I would be able to talk to somebody who wasn�t a total dumbass. And I ran into Dieana.

I dated Dieana for a short period, and she has had some serous psychotic breaks before, but there is no denying that she is one smart woman. Frankly, I can�t think of anybody else more perfect to run into while I was in my, �oh my god, my friends are all a bunch of fucking idiots� mood. So we drank and talked about stagnation. And then it was time to go home, and I crashed my bike into a side wall made of brick yet again.

And what�s the fucking point? Nothing, I suppose, except that if you�re going to be a drunk, you�d better have some sort of talent, or I�m going to get really annoyed with you, very quickly.


Rating: Worth working in a used bookstore and getting for cheap.

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